


Alone

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:07:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3879922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Shoot prompt- Maybe one where Root goes on a mission alone and gets hurt really bad. Then Shaw finds her and takes care of her until she gets better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone

Was it stupid?  _Probably._  But could she handle it?  _Yes_. Or so she thought.

Root smooths back her tightly tied hair, fingers dancing over her bun as she walks up to the glass-paned front door. Straightening out her pencil skirt, she rings the doorbell. The window is frosted, but Root can just make out the blurred figure of a woman as she walks forward, unlocking the door and pulling it open.

“Hello?” The woman says, peeking her large, black eyes around the edge of the doorframe, manicured fingernails clicking against the dark wood. Root flashes her a kind, open smile.

“Hi, Mrs. Dunam? It’s Kate Fox, the psychic? I called your husband earlier, he said you’d be here.”

“Ah, yes.” The woman’s eyes soften, and a bright smile overtakes her coffee face. “Come in, come in.” Mrs. Dunam opens the door wide, revealing a large, older style home. Root steps in, eyes enlarged in curiosity, taking in every inch of the home. Root walks past a large, winding staircase with heavy, floor-to-ceiling book shelves on either side.

“You have a lovely home,” Root compliments politely, all the while looking for all exit routes and possible points of entry.

* * *

 

“It would be even  _better_  if it weren’t haunted,” Mrs. Dunam laughs out wistfully. Root nods, pretending to understand and to sympathize, and Mrs. Dunam’s eyes become inquisitive. “How long have you been, uh, searching for spirits in people’s homes?”

Root’s smile widens, trust radiating from her being. “I worked with my sisters for a few years doing seances, but realized I’d rather do something more…  _helpful_. I left that practice- hmm- four years ago? Around four,” Root concludes, letting her eyes drift back over the house’s layout. “What makes you think this place is haunted?”

“Well, at first the real estate agent told us- and I thought she was  _crazy_!” Mrs. Dunam laughs, and Root gives her an amused grin. “But lately, things have been goin’ on,” she says in a more serious tone. Root’s smile drops down, and her eyes urge Mrs. Dunam to go on. “Random noises in the night at first. A door opening even though we had it locked. And the other day, somebody ransacked my husband’s home office. They- the spirits- left a note on his desk too.  _‘Give it to us or she’s dead._ ’ We knew we needed to get help after that.”

Root nods her head, walking further into the home, stopping before a surprisingly up-to-date kitchen.

“You can have a seat if you’d like,” she tells Root, and Root graciously takes to a chair. Mrs. Dunam walks across to the fridge, her quick, fluid movements making her appear younger than her true age.

“What does your husband do?” Root asks, already knowing the answer.

“Jimmy? Oh, he’s a computer tech. Loves that job,” she tells her, amused smile on her round face as she walks back to Root with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. She fills them easily, then sits across from Root. She looks intently into Root’s eyes. “Do you feel anything? Any readings? Any signs?”

Root turns her head away, scanning the back wall. “I could use a little help,” Root breathes out. Across the line, Harold is ready, information pouring onto the computer screen. He babbles it off quickly, and the corner of her lip quirks up in a half smile. “A family lived here,” Root relays back to Mrs. Dunam, turning to face her once more. “The Hothmans. Let’s see… Mother, father… Two twin daughters and a younger son.” Mrs. Dunam’s eyes widen.

“How did you  _know_  that?!” She asks, awe in her voice. Root smirks at her.

“I have this little voice in my ear; he tells me everything.” Mrs. Dunam’s eyes glow at that, and she sits forward in her seat, ready to devour every word Root speaks.

“The boy died here,” Root says, and Mrs. Dunam nods.

“That’s why the agent told us it was haunted.”

“Yes, well, um, his presence is strong,” Root says, thinking back to every paranormal movie she’d seen for proper lingo. Mrs. Dunam gasps, peering around the room wildly. She leans in further, palms pressed to the table.

“Is he  _here_?” She mouths, eyes darting left to right.

“Yes,” Root smiles simply, “but not  _right_  here. Somewhere in this house.” Root looks to the ceiling, listens to Harold once more, then sighs. “They found him in the basement, right?”

“In a small tunnel, it apparently leads to a whole underground labyrinth of them, all from different houses,” Mrs. Dunam informs her. “Entrance is right over there.” She points to a trap door at the back corner of the kitchen, undoubtedly leading to the cellar.

“Ms. Groves,” Harold’s voice interrupts her thoughts, “do you have Ms. Shaw looking around?”

“She’s not… here,” Root tells him quietly, and Mrs. Dunam watches her with a stupefied fixation.

“Why not? I told you to bring her and-”

“I  _know_ , Harold,” she says, eyes flickering momentarily to Mrs. Dunam. “But I’ve got this one. I can handle myself.”

From her end of the line, she can hear an annoyed but compliant puff of air escape his lips. “Fine, just make sure you copy his hard drive. It could hold vital information.”

“I can do you one better,” she responds, a light smile brushing her face. It drops when she refocuses on Mrs. Dunam. Her eyes are saucers, mouth ajar.

“Was that  _him_?” She asks, voice quivering with excitement.

“Where does your husband work in the house?” Root asks, treading around the question and standing. Mrs. Dunam shoots up, chair nearly falling back, and she hurries off back down the hall. Root follows, walking fast to keep pace, and they scale the stairs. On the second floor, it is nothing but doors. Doors leading every way and every where. She scurries over to the one closest to the left, pushing it open with an eerie screech. Root walks in, examining the disoriented space; it looks as if a small bomb went off. Papers are scattered across the entire floor, broken trinkets litter the desk.

Root walks forward, careful not to slip on the loose pages, and examines the note on the desk. The penmanship is easy but formal; scratchy like a man’s font. It says exactly what Mrs. Dunam recited, and Root can feel her neck prickling with unease. Someone is coming here to kill her, and all for a computer.  _But where is it?_  Root’s eyes scan the room, heart beating faster with worry.

“Did he have a computer before?” Root asks, trying to keep her voice casual.

“He still does,” Mrs. Dunam replies. “He locks it up when he isn’t using it. He takes his job quite seriously.”

“May I see it?” The woman gives her a suspicious look, but nods. She walks over to the wall, then knocks on it in a few different places. She finds a hollow spot with her fist. Her fingers slide against the spot, sinking into a groove not visible to the naked eye; she pulls it down like a flap, and a hidden cubbyhole is revealed.

“Do you think it’s gonna help?” She asks, a nervousness in her voice. “I really don’t want to just hand out his computer.”

“Don’t worry,” Root assures her in a nurturing tone. “ _I_  won’t even turn it on, I just need to inspect it.”

Just as Mrs. Dunam places it in Root’s grasp, there is the sound of glass shattering a few rooms down.

“Oh  _my_!” Mrs. Dunam yelps, jumping back and rustling papers noisily. “The  _spirits_! They-they-they  _must_  be attached to it!”

“I don’t think it’s the spirits,” Root says blandly, hearing voices growing in the space. “We need to get out of here.” Tucking the laptop under one arm, Root stalks forward with Mrs. Dunam close at her heels.

“What is goi-”

“I need you to be quiet, okay?” Root tells her in a calming but authoritative tone. Mrs. Dunam nods, and Root presses her ear to the door.

She turns the knob, and on a silent count of three throws the door open, cringing at the loud groan it produces.

“Over there!” A man’s voice howls, and Root knows the clock is now ticking. She pushes Mrs. Dunam first down the steps, protruding her gun and aiming it back, keeping an eye over her shoulder as she descends the stairs.

Root walks briskly past Mrs. Dunam and to the front door. Just as she gets her fingers around the knob, glass shatters in, and she brings her arms to her face protectively. She can feel the shards ripping past her blazer and searing into her skin. She turns on her heel, grabbing Mrs. Dunam by the wrist and flinging her forward down the hall. They run.

“What’s going on?!” She cries out, running back towards the kitchen. Root hears the discharge of a gun and a bullet whizzes by. Twisting her torso back, she fires off two rounds in the direction of the entrance, then shuts the kitchen door.

“People are here to kill you,” Root informs her, smoothing down her skirt and heading towards the trap door. She can see the blood dripping onto the linoleum floor, but ignores it. “Not ghosts, men with guns and a mission to get  _this_.” Root waves the laptop around briefly, then pries up the door. Mrs. Dunam stands next to the counter, quaking.

“Wha-why?”

“Your husbands an important man,” Root says with a blood chilling tone. “Well, what he works on, at least. I was sent here to protect you from them.” Root finally gets the floor piece up, and bullets rain in through the wooden door, sending splinters into the air like arrows. Root ushers Mrs. Dunam over, and she obeys, lowering herself shakily down the cellar ladder. She stops when her head falls even with Root, who kneels beside the opening.

“So… You’re  _not_  a psychic?”

______\ If Your Number’s Up /______

“Why the  _Hell_  didn’t you tell me sooner, Harold,” Shaw demands yet again, knuckles tightened angrily on the steering wheel, teeth clenched together with a sneer on her lips.

“I called you as soon as I knew,” Harold tells her once more, trying to keep his tone free of annoyance. “I didn’t think she would just wander off without enlisting your help.”

“Yeah, well, you thought wrong,” she spits, taking a quick left on a red light. Horns blare and brakes squeal on other vehicles, but she doesn’t even flinch. Her eyes are set in determination and rage. “When I get there I’m gonna kick her scrawny  _ass_ ,” Shaw mutters to herself, pressing her foot harder against the gas pedal.

“Ms. Shaw, perhaps it would be best if you obeyed the traffic signals,” he suggests with worry lacing his words. “Before you draw  _unwanted_  attention.” Shaw smirks wickedly.

“What’s the fun in breaking the rules if no one’s there to confirm you did it?”

Shaw takes another sharp turn, driving onto the address’s street. She drives down, eyes scanning back and forth. Out front of one, she sees three large, black SUV’s and a door forced open, window nothing but shattered edges. Shaw feels her heart give an involuntary lurch, and she scolds herself angrily.

Slamming on the breaks, she puts the car in park, then dials Root’s number, tapping her fingers impatiently against the dash, waiting for the pickup. Shaw can hear the ringing in her earwig, it feels endless.

“Hey, Sweetie,” Root greets with affection drowning her words. “You miss me?”

Shaw scoffs, then stops, forcing her mind back on track. “Watcha doin’?” Shaw asks, trying to sound casual, all the while growing increasingly antsy.

“Nothing much,” Root replies in the same manner, only hers laced with more amusement and the bubbling undertones of a flirt. “Just spending some time with a new acquaintance. She thought her house was  _haunted_ ,” Root informs Shaw in an as-if tone. “But don’t worry, I convinced her it wasn’t th-”

“I know you’re with a number,” Shaw interrupts heatedly. Unable to take it any longer, Shaw yanks open the car door, ready to head in. She pulls out her knife, dragging it along the SUVs’ right-side tires as she passes them by. “I’m out front.”

“Oh, good,” Root replies with some relief in her voice. “A little back up couldn’t hur-”

She’s cut off by the rapid fire of guns and an unearthly shriek.

“Go,  _go_!” Shaw can hear Root’s powerful voice as she yells the order to someone. There is scared whimpering at her side, but it fades away quickly. Shaw hears loud shuffling and a few metallic bangs, then gunfire erupts once more.

“Root?  _Root_!” Shaw calls out, running for the front door. Although it is already half open, Shaw kicks it the rest of the way, and it connects with the wall noisily, sending a tremor through the floor. “Root, where are you?” Shaw’s gun is extended, and she checks the side room. Clear. Nothing but shelves of books and a staircase. She hears noises from a room above, and takes the stairs silently up.  _Come on, Root, talk to me._

Shaw makes it up the steps, then follows the bangs and paper shuffles to an utterly wrecked office. A man is in the room, ripping it to shreds. He turns, sees her, and falters. His eyes widen in surprise, hand reaching down towards his waistband. Before he gets the chance, Shaw fires her weapon, and he drops to the floor. Shaw turns away, ready to check the rest of the rooms, when she hears faint gunshots from down below. They come in more crisply through her earwig.  _She has to be downstairs_.

In a rush, Shaw takes the stairs down two at a time, swinging over the side of the railing and hitting the floor running, gun extended as she hustles to the end of the hall. The gun fire gets louder, and she finds an open trap door in the kitchen. And blood.

“Take this… and go!” Shaw can hear Root’s strained voice through the earpiece, and she can feel a nervousness quicken her heart.

“Go  _where_?!” An unknown voice asks, near tears. There is silence a moment.

“Left, right, right, left, up three, right.”

“ _What_?” The voice asks, alarmed.

“Just go!”

Shaw slides down the ladder quickly, ending up in a dank cellar. Her eyes adjust, revealing four men, backs to her, firing into a small corner of the dark room. Without a second thought or a flinch of feeling, Shaw picks them off easily, and they drop like stone. She sees someone in a suit shimmying into what she can only assume is a large vent, and gunfire echoes down it.

She stalks over, grabbing the man at the ankle and yanking him back. She hears an ‘oof’ as the wind is knocked out of him. Yanking him the rest of the way out, he flips over, gun fumbling in his hand. She rips if from his loose grasp, then punches him fiercely. He attempts to block himself, but after two good blows to the head, he is down for the count. Wiping her brow with her jacket sleeve, Shaw drags his unconscious body out of the way.

“Root?” She calls into the space. The word echoes off the walls, coming back to her empty handed. Shaking her head, she drops to her hands and knees, crawling in with ease, back barely grazing the top of the tunnel. It grows darker and darker as she crawls, and she finally comes to a fork in the path. Again, she calls out. “Root?”

“I’m right here.” Shaw jumps slightly, the words loud and close to her right ear, and she smacks her head on the concrete ceiling. She grunts, bringing a hand to the back of her head. “You okay?” Root asks, voice sounding timid and tired, but so close to Shaw that she can feel Root’s breath on her ear as it moves loose strands of her hair. Shaw rolls her neck.

“Fine.”

Root lets out a sleepy sigh, and Shaw- although not wanting to admit it to herself- feels an anxious stitch in her side.

“We gotta get out of here,” Shaw informs her, keeping completely neutral.

“Okay.” Shaw waits, but Root doesn’t move. The stitch grows stronger, and Shaw fights viciously to ward it off. Groping around in the dark, Shaw’s hand touches fabric, warm with body heat. She pauses.

“Where’s my hand?

“Do you  _really_  want to know?” Root asks, the old flame back in her voice, and Shaw rolls her eyes. Shifting her hand up, it comes to Root’s neck. She debates upon choking her, flustered from the comment and angered at Root’s inability to confide in her, but decides against it. She lets her hand trail along to Root’s shoulder, then down her arm. Shaw can feel something wet and warm, and can only hope it isn’t what her mind tells her.

Her hand comes to Root’s wrist, and she pulls. Root barely budges. “Come  _on_ , Root,” Shaw says with a hint of annoyance. “If you’re going to make me pull you by myself, it’ll be by your hair.” Shaw can feel Root stir at her side, and smiles in triumph.

They work back towards the entrance, slowly but surely, until they finally emerge into the openness of the cellar. Light filters in from the kitchen, making the space bright in contrast to the ebony tunnel. Shaw stands, then helps Root up as she peeks out from the small space. She unfolds like a lawn chair with too many joints, coming to her full height before Shaw.

Shaw inspects her, mouth coming to a dismayed slant at seeing all the blood on her jacket.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember that time I injecting you with that tranquilizer?”

“Well,  _obviously_ ,” Shaw huffs, a flare of annoyance rumbling in her stomach at the memory.

“And how I- I caught you?”

“Uh, sure.”

“I need you to do that.”

Before Shaw can ask what she means, Root sways, knees buckling out from under her. Shaw, eyes pulling wide, lunges forward, arms outstretched.

______\ We’ll Find You /______

Root awakens to a warmth in her abdomen and an icy cool on her forehead. Her arms are lead, her ears filled with cotton, but she pushes past the feeling, bringing her fingers up. She can feel the coldness of an ice pack on her forehead, and removes it tiredly.  _Where am I?_  She asks herself, looking about. She sees a familiar dresser matched by familiar walls, and a familiar scent encases her.  _My apartment._

Sitting up, she feels a painful tug in her stomach, and brings a hand to the spot. Pulling back the blanket, she sees the white shirt she had been wearing that day, only now it has crimson flowers blooming in uncoordinated places. She balls it together in her hand, bringing it farther up her front to see a thick gauze wrapping around her waist, the first beads of red pushing through.

She lays back, dizziness in her clouded head, and she rests her wrist on her cool forehead, only, that doesn’t feel right either. Pulling it back, she is slightly shocked to see more gauze climbing up both of her forearms.  _What happened to me?_

“Need an aspirin?” Root’s brow furrows, and she drops her head to the left, a fuzzy picture coming into focus. Seeing who, she sits up quickly, and a jabbing pain explodes in the back of her head.

“What are you doing here?” Root asks past the pain. Shaw, who has a kitchen chair pulled into the room, watches her. She sits on it backwards, legs on either side of the back rest and arms resting on top. Shaw smirks, seeing the surprise on Root’s face.

“Someone had to bring you back.”

Root ponders this a moment, and grainy strings of the Dunam house drift back to her. “How’d you get in?”

“Picked your lock,” Shaw replies, and Root raises her eyebrows, an amused half smile coming to her face.

“You say that like you’ve done it before,” Root coos; Shaw’s eyes flicker with annoyance.

“Pick locks? Yeah, I  _have_ ,” Shaw spits back defensively, and Root lets out a small laugh. Then, she sees the computer in her mind’s eye, and falls serious.

“I need to go,” she says urgently, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Shaw stands, eyes hard.

“You’re not going anywhere just yet,” she responds, an edge to her voice. Root ignores her, coming to a stiff stand.

“I need to find Mrs. Dunam, that computer makes her a target, and I-”

“Root, I’m not really concerned about a computer,” Shaw interrupts her, coming around the bed to block Root’s path. Root is taken aback by what she finds is a bold statement. “So sit.” A coy smirk comes to Root’s face.

“Make me.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, shaking her head with distaste. Root steps forward, but Shaw doesn’t move away. She stands, firm and stone-solid, eyes dangerous. Root squelches the prickles of unease, trying to see any underlying humor in them. There isn’t.

None the less, she balls up her defiance, knowing she has to-  _needs to_ \- get that hard drive. So, stepping forward again, Root places her hands kindly but firmly on Shaw’s shoulders, eyes smoldering with enjoyment at the close proximity. Almost wistfully, she moves her eyes past Shaw, and begins to push her out of the way, seeing the room’s exit only a few feet off.

Shaw shifts in Root’s arms, falling to the side like putty in her hands.  _You’ve lost your touch, Shaw,_  Root thinks to herself jokingly, a small smirk pulling at her lip.  _You’re not as hardened as you used to b-_

In the matter of a second, Root feels the wind sucked from her lungs, like a vacuum to her lips, and her side erupts in a flaming torch of pain. From the corner of her eye, Root can see Shaw’s hand retract, and Root flops over onto the bed, hands clasped at the wound in her side, breath ragged as she tries to draw in a breath.

It was only a swift punch, but it left Root breathless and miserable. Between her pale fingers, she can already feel the flaming heat of the blow give way to the sticky warmth of blood. Doubled over on the bed, she gives a pained laugh.

“Okay,” she wheezes. “You made me.”

Shaw, after watching Root with cold eyes, takes a seat beside her on the mattress. Root forces herself into a sitting position, wincing in pain as black clouds storm in over her vision.

The blackness gives way to vibrant bursts of color as a tingle runs down her spine, making her shiver. Shaw’s hand pulls up Root’s shirt delicately, all the while she leans over to inspect the new damage.

Clucking her tongue in annoyance, Shaw leans over the bed, her hand falling away from Root’s side- and with it- the fireworks bursting before Root’s eyes. Shaw resurfaces with a roll of gauze; she sets it on the edge of the bed, then proceeds to unwrap the quickly darkening dressings.

Root watches her, transfixed with a sort of awe, and her eyes convey it openly. Shaw’s gaze reaches up to hers for a moment, then again as she does a double take. Her lip raises in the beginning of a snarl, but she falls short. Root bites her bottom lip subconsciously, an Shaw rolls her eyes, bringing them back down to her work.

“Is this how you treat  _all_  of your patients?” Root asks facetiously, a lopsided smile overcoming her features.

Shaw gives an amused puff of air through her nose. “Only the uncooperative ones,” she remarks, and Root looks to the far corner of the room, like Shaw is the sun, far too close and bright to stare at so long.

A few minutes pass by in silence, Root’s lungs burn as she holds her breath, afraid one little exhale could blow Shaw away. Shaw runs her hand across Root’s side, eyes inquisitive as she inspects the bullet wound. She feels a short twinge of guilt for hitting Root so hard- enough to cause a new flow of blood- but swats it away angrily.

“Alright, lay back.” Root watches her a moment, thinks of complying, but her unresting conscience gets the better of her.

“I really need to get that computer,” Root tells Shaw again, starting to stand. Shaw forces her back down, this time much more tenderly.

“I’ll get Harold on it,” Shaw mutters, pushing Root’s shoulders back, but still she retaliates.

“But she  _knows_  who I am, it will make her more c-”

“This was a lot easier when you were unconscious, ” Shaw deadpans, catching Root off guard. She brings her eyes back to Shaw’s and sees a pessimistic impatience flaring up within. “ _I’ll_  call Harold, but for  _now_ ,” she gives Root a serious look that only makes her want to grin wide. “Please. Lay.  _Back_.” Root gives a shrug of the shoulders.

“Only because you asked nicely.”

Slowly, she eases herself back, ignoring the ball of pain growing in her right side. She watches with electrified nerves as Shaw pulls herself farther onto the mattress, sitting up on her knees as she tears strands of the gauze off roughly. Shaw collects four about five inches long, then places the roll back down. She puts the first four between her teeth, bringing the fifth down and pressing it to Root’s side, waiting a moment for it to stick before reaching for another.

“Is that sterile?” Root asks in a questioning tone that is sure to annoy Shaw. Shaw’s eyes narrow, and Root’s heart soars, exhilarated at causing the right effect.

“Saliva has histatin in it,” Shaw shoots back, irritated words muffled by three pieces of gauze as she brings the fourth to Root’s side. “Better antibacterial than isotonic fluid. Be grateful.”

Root can’t help but grin idiotically up at Shaw, unable to mask her sheer delight at hearing the scientific tidbit rolling off her tongue so easily.

“I love it when you play doctor,” Root coos, eyes doting and heart pounding. Shaw stops her work, hunched over Root’s laying form, just long enough to send her a warning glare. Shaw applies the last strips speedily, making sure they stay in place before unraveling some more of the bandage.

Shaw slides down beside Root, laying on her left as she places the beginning at the center of Root’s stomach. Then, she slowly unravels it, feeding the roll down Root’s side, then snaking it under her back. Root’s back arches involuntarily at the touch, and she can feel her pulse roar- beating down on her fingertips before surging up to her heart- as Shaw continues the motion, allowing her arm to linger around Root’s waist briefly each time; just enough time to make Root question if it’s her own imagination.

Root’s eyes are riddled with stars, but- with the steady tightening of her chest- Root realizes it isn’t stars, so much as the swimming beads of white that cover your eyes when you become light headed. She hadn’t been breathing.

Shaw finishes the wrappings off quickly, and Root lets her searing breath out with a whoosh. Gulping the fresh air back into her achy lungs, she peers over to Shaw, catching Shaw watching her face. Root smirks, and she feels a delighted surge in her spirits at seeing the red in Shaw’s ears- caught.

“So, how long am I gonna be your prisoner?” Root asks with a provocative tone lacing in her voice, tempted to see how far Shaw can go without snapping. To both Root’s surprise and enjoyment, Shaw smirks at her in return.

“Until you’ve made a full recovery.”

“That  _could_  be a while…” Root muses aloud, bringing her brows together in an exaggerated ponder, looking up to the ceiling. Finally, her eyes carry back to Shaw, smug smiles within them. “With your passive-aggressive work ethic and all.” A light chuckle escapes Shaw’s lips, and the room seems to brighten around her, blinding Root with her intensity. Shaw looks up at the ceiling a moment.

“I’ll be sure to take good care of you from now on,” Shaw tells her cryptically, her tone too much of everything and too little of each for Root to decipher. And in the blink of a stunned eye, Shaw is gone. Root, laying paralyzed with eyes open wide and mouth in a loose, exuberant smile, can barely hear Shaw’s receding footsteps over the rambunctious drumroll of her heart.

**Author's Note:**

> (Also, read more about [Kate Fox](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fox_sisters) and [Histatin](http://www.science20.com/news_releases/histatin_why_licking_your_wounds_actually_works)) 


End file.
